Five Planes

by Melissa Scott

  “That’s just it, Thurgood. Look at some of those particular elements of correspondence.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Born on the Third Plane. Sanrosa Lineage. Archaeologist at Kauhale University. Digging on Kauhale’s moon. Vacation on a cruise ship…”

  (“The case was adjudicated properly.”)

  (“Wait. I think I know what he’s groping toward.”)

  “All those elements predated the episode in question. You think Uenuku’s writers based their character on Caridad Sanrosa’s life, not the other way around.”

  For the first time, Bhagwati smiled. “Yes! And the other correspondences could have been legitimate coincidences.” He sighed. “You see it, don’t you?”

  “I…see what you’re saying.” She took a deep breath. “Lad, Justice doesn’t always make sense. Look at the complexity of this case: four hundred terabytes. That’s why we have AIs to help us. Somewhere in all that data, in all the facts and their interrelationships, in all the precedents and previous case law, there’s something that caused the codices to recommend a guilty verdict.”

  His eyes, a clear and piercing almond, pinned her soul. “You don’t believe that. You can’t.”

  Nalani lowered her gaze. “No, I don’t.”

  “Thank the Fifth Ship! Then you’ll reopen the case?”

  She looked up again. “If I do, then you’ll join me in finding Accursius XVII?”

  His broad smile was infectious. “You’ve got a deal!”

  1.05 The Lost Ship

  With new loads of colonists arriving on Coquimbo every month, Artur found the colony’s weekly dance socials indispensable. Just about everyone attended, one Themday or another. By drifting among the colonists, alert to casual conversation and general grousing, he picked up a lot of information about the infrastructure—more than once he’d managed to avert a major problem based on what he heard at the social.

  Besides, the social was a great place to meet and welcome new colonists. Case in point, the strapping young farmer’s son who danced in the circle across from Artur. Short, dark, curly-haired, and well-muscled, just Artur’s type. The lad’s name was Graciano; his mother worked a few hundred hectares in the mideast, along with Graciano and his two sisters. They came from an overcrowded world whose code Artur didn’t remember, in search of freedom and wide-open spaces. Except that now, after a few weeks, Graciano was discovering how lonely those spaces could be.

  The current number, high-stepping and lively, ended with Artur panting and even Graciano breathing heavily. “Let’s sit the next one out,” Artur said, and the boy nodded agreement. The hall was too warm, the air thick and damp from too many energetic bodies. Artur led Graciano out onto the broad wooden patio that joined the town’s boardwalk.

  It was cool and quiet. About a dozen shops lined the boardwalk; this late all were closed. They strolled westward, past the beach and onto the town’s great pier. Both moons had set with the sun hours ago; the sky was clear and the stars bright. Looking up, Artur felt that if he could just reach high enough, he could stroke the sky and feel its texture like finest sand.

  Graciano followed his eyes. “It’s beautiful. Back home, we never had skies like these.”

  “Too many people with too much light, I expect.” As they stood together, Artur felt the lad press against his left side, steadying himself. “Hey, want to see something special?”

  Graciano chuckled, and Artur shook his head. “Not that. Here.” He pulled a small data board from his shirt, flicked on a custom subroutine, and handed it to Graciano. “That display’s slaved to my right eye. Watch.”

  The subroutine was one he used often; all the real work was done by his prosthetic eye’s sensors and processors. Artur closed his left eye, as usual when doing anything tricky with the right; but tonight he cheated, keeping a side sensor tracking on Graciano’s face so he could see the lad’s reaction.

  On the board and in Artur’s perception, the field of view widened to show half the sky, infinite black velvet spattered with myriad gems, each tinier and more delicate than a sand grain. It was the same sky, but sharper, deeper than the human eye could see.

  At his side, Graciano drew in breath. “Th-that’s so...”

  “Wait.” With subtle slowness, a completely different set of stars faded into view, crimson instead of white, like the ghost of another sky behind and beyond the one their naked eyes perceived. As the new crimson starfield brightened, the white stars waned, diminishing from view.

  Eyes wide, Graciano looked from the board to the actual sky, then to Artur. “What are we seeing?”

  Artur smiled. “Technically, that’s the sky in polarized microwaves of a very specific frequency set.” He slipped his good arm across the lad’s shoulders. “That’s light from the Fourth Plane, redshifted by bleeding through hyperspace. It takes a lot of processing and cleanup to get a view like this.” He felt the lad shiver. “They call them phantom stars. If you were standing in the same cosmographical location, but on the Fourth Plane, that’s the sky you’d see.”

  Graciano turned to face him, ran fingertips along Artur’s facial prostheses. “And you can see that whenever you want...?”

  They pressed closer. “Not exactly,” Artur whispered, feeling his breath on the lad’s face. “Conditions have to co-operate. Tonight’s exceptionally clear.” Their lips touched, then Artur jerked back. Wait a second, exceptionally clear?

  “What’s wrong?”

  Artur snatched the board from the lad’s hand and tapped into his maintenance dashboard. There was no mistaking the readouts. “Oh, I do not crapping believe this. No wonder the sky’s so clear and bright.”

  “Artur, tell me what’s happening?”

  “That piece of crap heat shield is down again.” He stopped, frozen, then turned pained eyes on Graciano. “Lad, I hate to do this—you don’t know how much I hate to do this—but I’ve got to run.” He gave the boy a squeeze and a too-short kiss, then backed away.

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Physics, but I hope so.” Artur turned, and set off toward town at a quick trot.

  Al-Ghazali was Nalani’s last interview. Only five other Apprentices had expressed interest in her assignment, all of them uniformly uninspiring. (“I hope this one lives up to her record,”) she told her codex.

  Al-Ghazali carried herself with precision, spine straight and each movement slow, deliberate. A series of tiny, glittering pinpoints outlined her right eyebrow. Tradition demanded that a Judiciar’s codex be visible, but not what form it should take. Few were comfortable drawing such attention to it.

  Nalani gestured to a chair. “Sit down, please. I’m sorry this is so late.”

  Al-Ghazali flashed a smile, just as quickly replaced by the even line of her lips. “I don’t mind. I’m a night owl myself.”

  Nalani settled into her best non-threatening posture. “How would you prefer to be addressed, Sen?”

  “I wouldn’t presume, Supreme Justice. I’m happy with whatever you wish.”

  “Sensible. If you don’t mind, I’ll call you Al-Ghazali and you can call me Thurgood. Does that suit?”

  “Of course, Thurgood.”

  “You’ve got one more year here on the Fifth Plane, then you move on to Fourth. Why do you want to leave with me now? You must be near the top of the pecking order. Why not stay and enjoy the fruits of your labor?”

  Al-Ghazali tilted her head. “As you said, an opportunity like this doesn’t come along very often. In the normal order, it could be twenty or thirty years before I have a chance to work directly with someone of your rank.” She blinked. “I don’t want to flatter, but you’re a legend. Your portrait is in the Hall of Judiciars. To serve under Thurgood IX, why that would—”

  “Would look impressive on your record? It would.”

  “Sen, I was going to say it would teach me so much.”

  “That’s fair. To be sure, your record is fairly impressive for a fourth-year Apprentice. Your educational statistics are ou
tstanding, and you’ve even managed to charm Superior Justice Grotius. No mean feat.” She leaned forward. “So that’s what you’ll get out of it. Convince me that I’ll gain from taking you on.”

  Al-Ghazali matched her posture, putting them face to face. “I don’t give up. Set me a task and I’ll accomplish it. Give me a mission and I’ll succeed.”

  Nalani raised an eyebrow. “A regular bulldog, eh? How can you, specifically, help me find my missing friend?”

  “You’re looking for Accursius XVII, right? I did my senior thesis on her career. I’ve read all her books and watched all her lectures. I know her methods and her judicial philosophies. It would be a dream come true if I could meet her in person.” Al-Ghazali pulled back. “That’s how I can help you. I’m driven by passion.”

  Nalani grinned. “I’m convinced. I’ll have my codex transfer you and Bhagwati to my authority, effective at once.”

  “Bhagwati? I didn’t know he was interested.”

  “He wasn’t, but I persuaded him. Do you disapprove?”

  “Not a bit. Bhagwati’s got a fine head on his shoulders. It’ll do him good to get out from under Grumpius. Ah, I mean Superior Justice Grotius.”

  “Opinion noted. Professionalism prevents me from commenting on the personalities of fellow Justiciars. A practice you’d be well advised to adopt.” Nalani sat back in her chair and folded her hands. “I know, grousing about the boss is timeless. But offhand remarks can be overheard and repeated. Across five Planes and however many worlds, the Justiciary is still a surprisingly small institution.” She closed her eyes. “It’s worth going out of your way to avoid giving offense, even the appearance. You’ll be working with these people for a century, even longer.” Opening her eyes, Nalani stood. “That concludes Gran Thurgood’s helpful advice for the day. I’ll see you back here at nine tomorrow morning. Be prepared to work.”

  Kauhale’s Startown was twice the size of the Startowns on most Third and Fourth Plane worlds, and at first glance twice as elegant, multi-tiered towers rising in neat geometric patterns around hexagonal garden spaces filled with public art. Around the actual port areas, where the shuttles brought passengers and cargo down from transit orbits, there were more buildings and fewer gardens, and the blank reflective surfaces showed only their neighbors’ discreet signage and the lights of the traffic in the ground-level travel lanes. Thirty meters above the main thoroughfares, the mass transit tubes strobed slowly, flashing brighter blue as each capsule passed along the translucent passages. They cast reflections down the side streets, a steady pulse that made the shadows jump and dance.

  Val Millat had followed that safe ring as far as possible, but now the directions muttering in his ear steered him down a side street where the buildings were less tall, and the towers’ lowest floors were sheathed in intricate metal mesh, dotted here and there with the bright red eyes of security watchers. A little further, barred glass gave way to poured stone, banded with advertising displays around the third floor, too high up for any but the most determined vandal to reach; the ground floors were badged here and there with slashes of paint imperfectly removed, and any unclaimed space was layered with cheap paper advertising. This was more like the Startowns Val had known since childhood, and in the twilight hours between the end of most day jobs and the start of the night-work, he felt safe enough. Besides, he looked like what he was, an out-of-work engineer, and on Kauhale—on most of the Fifth Plane—that pretty much meant he wasn’t carrying anything worth stealing. It would have been different on the Third Plane, or even the Fourth, and no one walked unarmed on the Second Plane, but the Fifth Plane was rich enough to let the average multi-planar’s crew walk unmolested.

  The next few blocks grew steadily more lively. The businesses on the ground floors were open, brief bursts of music and laughter breaking through the baffles. He passed an alley that opened into a miniature version of the hexagonal gardens, strung with multi-colored lamps and already filling with bright-clad bodies; beyond that, a string of shops were opening for the night-work, narrow display screens offering glimpses of clothing and supplies and every small luxury and souvenir that a traveler might find tempting. The device tucked behind his ear whispered that the Five Ships was in the next block, and sure enough there it was, the five great generation ships that had settled their corner of space orbiting in hologram above the entrance. Two people in half-armor guarded the entrance, arms folded on massive chests, and a thin person in an ankle-length robe held up their hand.

  “There’s an entrance charge after nineteenth hour, sen. Five credits, seven for a seat for the show.”

  “I was told there was a lecture? A talk?” Val began, the words turning into a question in spite of himself. Surely a nest of Lost Ship cultists wouldn’t be quite so obvious as to hold meetings in a club called the Five Ships.

  The doorkeeper nodded. “Oh. You’re for them. That’s ten credits, but that includes the entrance for downstairs, too.”

  That was a good thing: he’d probably want a drink after the lecture. Why he’d thought this was a good idea—but if he’d been going to let the problem go, he wouldn’t have resigned from Iridium Azimuth. He handed over his card—loaded with local credits; he’d converted enough of his severance pay that he wouldn’t have to worry about conversion charges—and the doorkeeper ran it through their scanner, then held up a glowing tube.

  “Hand? Forehead? Wrist? Has to be someplace public for security.”

  “Wrist,” Val said, and let them mark his arm. In the exterior lights, it was barely visible, pale gold against his skin, but once inside, it would glow vivid blue. When he was first serving on multiplanars, he’d loved the Fifth Plane clubs, loved coming home covered in a rainbow of admission marks. At the moment, the back-to-back crescents just made him feel old.

  The doorkeeper stepped aside, waving him into the dark. The entrance gave almost immediately onto the casual dance floor, lined on two sides by auto-bars wrapped in glow-tubes. Images from current immersives floated like ghosts over the dancers’ heads, a near bald woman in the formal white robes of a Supreme Justiciar striding through a cloud of gesticulating figures, while the music pulsed against his skin. It wasn’t so loud that you couldn’t make yourself heard, and for an instant he was tempted to stay in the outer bar, see if he couldn’t find company to distract him from his own stupidity. Or if that failed, there was always the main room, where the music played at a level that allowed no thought but dancing. He shook those thought away, recognizing them as cowardice, and wove his way through the crowd to the wall where a series of doors led to the club’s inner rooms.

  He found his way to the mobile stair that led to the third floor, and the room reserved for the lecture. It was smaller than he’d expected, but more comfortable, fitted with padded chairs and couches arranged in clusters that formed a rough semi-circle around the display pit, and there was already a server circulating with a cart of drinks.

  “Food to follow,” she said, when Val waved her to his seat, and dispensed a half-measure of what proved to be decent wine. A few minutes later, another cart appeared with food, and Val collected a plate of small bites. The room was filling up, though the crowd seemed to be divided between quietly-dressed people who sat as close as possible to the display, and people in a wide range of styles who looked as though they weren’t sure they wanted to be there. Val allowed himself a wry smile, knowing he fit entirely too well into that pattern. Even outside vertical society, people who pursued the question of the Fifth Ship—the Lost Ship—were considered at best eccentric.

  And there were other verticals there. The burly, bearded man might have thrown on a knee-length informal coat, but the boots that peeked out under his pants cuffs were definitely spacer’s wear, minus the magnetic plates. The taller man with him moved like someone who spent time in low gravity, and the trio of women on the far side with the pinned and braided hair had the weathered complexions of people who spent a good deal of time under varying solar outputs. The olde
r woman behind them was wearing a vertical-style working jacket. He slumped in his seat, hoping not to draw attention himself, and was relieved when the lights flashed once, then dimmed.

  The display space shimmered to life, an empty column that took up about a third of the platform, and a woman emerged from the shadows. She was gaunt and graying, her academic’s gown hanging loose on thin shoulders, but when she spoke, her voice was cool and pleasant.

  “Sens. It’s a pleasure to see so many of you here tonight. Before I begin, I will remind you that the images you are about to see are under copyright, and that piracy will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  And on the Fifth Plane, that was considerable. Val wrapped both hands around his wine glass, trying to swallow the sudden excitement. But if there was anything that could explain what he had seen—what he knew he had seen, what had saved them all—this was the place to begin finding it.

  “With that out of the way, sens, let us begin.” An image thickened in the display column, the familiar cube-on-cube-on-cube shape that had come to be considered the correct form of the Five Ships, and the lecturer raised her hand. “Five generation ships are the foundation of our society and settlement—each of us carries in our very name a link to one of the five: Hina, Naksatra, Sanrosa, Sanxing, Themis. As the first settlements were established, those ships were, by all accounts, demolished to provide raw materials that were otherwise in short supply. Indeed, there is evidence to suggest that this was the Founders’ original intentions, that the Ships were designed to be taken apart piecemeal and every scrap reused. Each Ship’s population—its lineage—kept relics of the original Ship, and every lineage claims to hold verifiable remnants of their original home.